


Small Steps

by Stakebait



Series: Taking Steps [2]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-11
Updated: 2010-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:58:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stakebait/pseuds/Stakebait
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buffy confronts her demons. Wesley confronts his Buffy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Steps

**Author's Note:**

>   
> Dedication: For minim_calibre, who issued the challenge. Many thanks to Olwen and Wolfling for the beta read!

  
Buffy reached out and touched the troubled vampire on the ankle.

Yeah, that's right, she thought. Troubled. Not "insane because of you", not "throwing himself on the nearest cross and begging for death that you, Vampire Slayer Extraordinaire, were too chicken to give him," "troubled." I bet he's "at risk," too. Boy, almost two months in the job and you've definitely got the lingo down.

It worked, though. Spike stopped whimpering and looked up at her from between his elbows - a weird position that came from clutching the back of his head like he was afraid something might fall out.

"Buffy?"

"Um, yeah."

"You shouldn't be here."

"Yeah, you said."

It took self-control not to pull her hand away, which was pathetic. It was just denim. Dirty black denim over a creased black leather boot top over - Buffy's mind derailed, still not sure, after everything that had happened between them, whether Spike wore socks. Did vampires still get blisters? Okay, focus here. Possibly over socks, over skin that she had touched a hundred times without imploding or whatever it was she was afraid of.

"I was gonna ask you about that."

Except for the part where I was afraid to be alone with you so I bagged and blamed it on quality time with the new, improved, non-homicidal Scoobies. Not that Spike was gonna be demanding an explanation any time soon.

"There are things down here. Evil things."

"Wanna give me an example?" Her voice was too abrasive, she knew that. And too loud, echoing between the big metal thing that she thought was the boiler and the other big metal thing that probably wasn't. Where did he sleep? Did he sleep at all?

"Well there's me, for starters." Spike gestured at his own chest with such an expression of offended dignity that Buffy bit her lip to keep from laughing. And then bit it harder to keep from crying a second later.

He reached up to cup her face, the way he had that first time since - he came back, saying "duck" like he'd say "love". When he used to say love.

She leaned into it, because that wasn't backing away.

"Don't, Slayer. Don't hurt yourself." For a second his expression was tender, and then he went off into a peal of bitter laughter. "That's my job."

"Then congratulations, you're employee of the month." It just came out. She was supposed to be helping. Listening. Understanding. Buffy wondered if maybe she should bring some of those oh-so-inspiring posters from the office down here where she really needed them. Maybe the kitten hanging on the branch. It could remind Spike of playing poker.

Spike dropped his hand away from her as if she burned.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry god I'm so sorry, I'm pathetic, I am." He was mumbling, not looking at her, tearing at the skin on his chest where his shirt hung open.

"Stop! Just stop it!" Buffy caught his wrists.

He curled protectively around himself, trying to keep her from seeing the newest batch of scars - or maybe just him. She jerked his hands forward into the better light. She could do this. Not his face, not yet, not with the moods blowing across it like clouds in a high wind. But she could look at his hands. He'd looked at hers. She remembered that.

The knuckles were red and raw. He'd been hitting something. Great deduction, Buffy. Violent crazy vampire hits things, film at 11. His nails were torn and ragged.

Right. That was something she could do. Buffy stood. "I'll be back," she told him. "And I'll bring some polish and a nail file. Your cuticles are a disgrace."

For a moment Spike smiled. "Sorry pet. Been letting myself go."

Buffy put her hands on her hips. "There's nothing worse than a sloppy vampire."

"Fixed the hair, didn't I?"

"Yeah." She leaned forward and ran her fingertips through it, until she saw the contented expression cross his face, like that was all he needed in the world. Like Willow's old cat curled up in a sunbeam. Whatever happened to her, anyway? Buffy was afraid to ask.

She took a step back, and she knew the frightened quaver was back in her voice.

"I guess that's something," she said, and fled, but not fast enough not to hear the litany begin again behind her.

"Shut up, Spike, god I'm so stupid always have to ruin it, anything good, broken, I'm sorry..."

********

She climbed the stairs with a firm click of counselorish, completely unstudenty heels, and went straight to the library. Xander was at work on some other site, since the high school had gone a whole week without major structural damage. That was probably a new record. Willow was at college, Dawn was -- Buffy checked the clock -- in French class and would probably be only too glad to be pulled out, but that would be unprofessional.

She would have gone to Wesley first anyway. If the whole gang had been there she would have made some lame excuse and run to Wesley all the faster, Buffy admitted to herself. That was okay. The key was not to admit it to him.

"You have to call him," she said accusingly. The best defense was being offensive, right?

Wesley looked up from his computer screen and smiled. "Funked it again, did you?"

"No! And we're not talking about me." Buffy added belatedly. "You have to call Angel."

Wesley didn't even have the decency to look rattled.

"I can assure you I don't." He gestured gracefully - when had it stopped looking swishy? - to the phone that sat peacefully next to him.

Which promptly began to ring. Buffy giggled. Wesley stood, pulled her abruptly back against him and slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the noise as he used the other to lift the receiver.

"Wyndam-Pryce," he said after a noticeable pause. Buffy wondered if he ever forgot and said "Angel Investigations."

"Yes," he continued. "Yes, quite. By Tuesday. I see. You do understand that any further delays will be... unacceptable?"

Buffy shivered. Wesley's threat voice did that to her, which was silly because she could throw him across the room if she wanted. Heck, if he didn't start eating more than half a tuna sandwich for lunch, she could probably throw him across the town.

She didn't feel like laughing any more, but she didn't pull away from his hand. Instead she pressed a kiss into the palm.

"Very well." Wes hung up the phone. Buffy wondered vaguely if no one said "bye" in England.

She relaxed against him and looked up over her shoulder, knowing the gesture looked flirty. Because, well, it was. "So what was that about? Something big going down?"

"I'm replacing the library's Encyclopedia Britannica."

He had a good poker face, she had to give him that.

"Sure you are." She pulled away, trying to turn to face him, but he caught her arm and wrenched it up practically to her shoulder blades, yanking her back against him.

"I don't believe I gave you leave."

Buffy shivered again, and Wesley pressed his growing erection into her from behind. She shifted her hips, teasing him.

"I could take you right now. Just slide that skirt up over your hips and bend you over the desk. No one will come in... if you're lucky."

Buffy squirmed. His fingers slid over her thigh and his breath was warm in her ear. It reminded her of ... Spike. On the balcony at the Bronze. She pulled away from Wes abruptly, wriggling to make her short black skirt fall back down to its normal just-above-the knee.

"We can't."

For a moment, Wesley's face looked almost hurt, but his voice was icy smooth, and Buffy decided she must have been imagining it.

"Because you require the pittance this place pays? Really, Buffy, I could easily make up the difference for your... services."

Buffy whirled around.

"I'm not going to hit you, so you can just give up."

Wes didn't answer. She nodded, satisfied, and hoped he didn't notice the fists unclenching at her sides. Pointless, of course. Wes noticed everything.

"We can't because it would hurt Spike."

"And you don't want to do that." His voice was warm, mocking and inviting at the same time - just like Spike's used to be. Come on now Buffy, he seemed to be saying, we both know you better than that.

"I won't." Which, they both knew, didn't answer the question.

"Tell me again why he got the soul."

That again. God. Buffy didn't know what Wesley got out of this ritual, but she was going to go for broke and guess it wasn't information. Not when this was the fourth time she'd told him the story. The third time had been in bed, before he let her come. And she had. Oh boy had she.

Just keeping track of who was using who here made her head hurt. She'd given up on figuring out what they were using each other for.

"I'll tell you if you'll call Angel."

Wesley crossed his arms shook his head, amused. "You'll have to do better than that."

"I so remember why you were the most annoying watcher ever right now," Buffy said in an aggrieved tone.

That, for some reason, made Wes laugh. The real, throaty one, not the bitter one. "I'm sure I was," he agreed cordially. "Does that mean you haven't another offer?"

"Fine!" Buffy puffed out an exasperated breath. "I'll tell you if you tell me why you won't call Angel."

Wesley considered it, then extended his hand to shake. "Done."

Buffy held back. "Not now. Tonight."

Wesley raised an eyebrow. "Trying to welsh on the bargain, or just buying time?"

"Neither." Buffy took a deep breath. "Come to my house. I'll show you where."

Wesley looked at her with something that almost looked like admiration. Or maybe pity. "You don't have to do this," he said, but he was watching her reaction again, weighing up her answer.

"Yes," Buffy said, "I do." She pulled him in for a quick, fierce kiss that left both of them gasping, and then turned on her heel and left before he could see her shaking.

********

Getting rid of Dawn was easy. Permission to sleep over a friend's house as long as she pretended to do her homework first, and $10 for a movie.

Getting rid of Willow was harder. Buffy didn't want to make her feel unwelcome or untrusted or apocalypsy or anything like that, but she wasn't up for playing bring my not-a-boyfriend to meet the family either. Especially since she didn't really trust Wes around Willow. He had a cruel streak sometimes, when he found a weakness to go after. Buffy found it oddly comforting, which she wasn't kidding herself was healthy but counselor, counsel thyself didn't have much of a ring to it. But that didn't mean she wanted to turn it loose on Wills, who was pretty much all sore spots even still.

The problem was she didn't really have any place to go. Her folks was way too much acting normal - Buffy wasn't even sure they knew about the gay thing, let alone the dead girlfriend thing, and the ending the world thing was right out, considering Willow's mom had gone Salem on her just for levitating pencils. Tara's room was probably given to some other girl already - the university wasn't big on closure when it came with less money attached.

Finally Buffy threw herself on Xander's mercy, and he proposed an old-time, Xander and Willow slumber party, complete with cartoons and action figures and goofy pajamas. Willow was so happy Buffy couldn't meet her eyes, or Xander's either. A better best friend would have come up with this for Willow's sake.

But at least they weren't hurt. That was the important thing.

That and they were gone. Buffy walked through the house, picking up the scattered junk and dumping it in the appropriate room and reveling in the silence of it, and the fact that things stayed where she put them. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been home alone, unless it was when Spike had... been there.

Normally Buffy changed out of her work clothes as soon as she got home. It made them last longer, which was good for the still-strained budget, and it was more comfy all around. But tonight she decided to wait. For one thing, the shower would come later.

For another, Wesley seemed to like these stockings with the back seam.

Buffy set the table and started cooking the dinner she'd shopped for on the way home. Nothing fancy for her to screw up in that comical sitcom way, but definitely date food. Tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil in yuppie vinegar. Chop, dump, toss, done. A steak - hard to mess up, if you owned a broiler and a meat thermometer, which thanks to mom, she did. Bread that only needed to be sliced and stuck in the oven to warm. Wine that she'd leave it to him to open, because some things were just the boy's job even if the girl had superhuman powers. Plus, last time she got it on her shirt. Raspberries with chocolate sauce ready to drizzle for dessert. Buffy could think of other places to drizzle chocolate sauce. If she was gonna take a shower anyway... She decided not to light candles on the table. It was movie-romantic, and Wes would sneer.

Buffy wondered if Wes would sneer anyway. They weren't exactly dating. But he was too thin. When she fucked him it felt like he might break, and she wondered if that was the point; wondered, too, if he would tell her the truth if she asked.

The doorbell rang and Buffy jumped.

Wesley had changed, into jeans and a shirt that clung to his arms.

"Hey," she said awkwardly, standing and looking at him. He was already getting a five o' clock shadow, which at 5:30 Buffy had to admit made sense. He looked younger, and harder, somehow.

"Oh! Come in."

"I don't actually need the invitation," he pointed out, stepping inside and taking off his coat as he looked around assessingly.

She took it and hung it up, feeling self-conscious, like she was playing hostess at one of her mom's gallery parties.

"Fine then, get out," she said.

He laughed.

"No."

Buffy pouted. "No one ever listens to me."

Wesley smiled. "And now I'm remembering why you were the most annoying Slayer ever."

Buffy smiled back. "What do you mean, were?"

*********

Dinner had gone, surprisingly, fine, if Buffy didn't think too hard about the "how was your day dear?" surreal June Cleaver aspect. Wesley made conversation about demon this and demon that; Buffy nodded and tried to look as though she had something more to contribute that "killed one of those, ruined my favorite sweater." After, she'd stacked the dishes in the sink and left them, though Wesley had caught up a towel and looked prepared to dry if she'd wash.

"C'mere." She caught his hand and pulled him towards the stairs, before she could lose her nerve.

"Your sophisticated come-ons never cease to astound me." That was actually rather a warm smile, not a nasty one, but too late, nerve lost. Buffy spun around to face him.

"Wes?"

"Yes?" He looked at her, the picture of mild British inquiry.

"Shut up." Buffy turned and fled up the stairs.

She could hear the creak of the treads that meant Wes was following at a deliberate pace. That would be scarier than plain old chasing her, if it wasn't, you know, the point.

As it was, it gave her time to get to her room and pull open the bottom bureau drawer. She pulled out the old chenille bathrobe.

"That's your sexiest lingerie? I'm disappointed in you, Buffy."

Her heart jumped. She whirled around, still holding the robe against her chest. Wes was leaning casually in the doorway.

"It's what I was wearing that night."

"Oh, I see." And he sounded like he did, too. "Well, what are you waiting for? Put it on."

Buffy reached for the button of her blouse with trembling hands. God knows Wes had seen her naked often enough, but that was more of a frantic grabbing tugging need you now thing. Stripping in front of him while he stood fully dressed and watched like it was the talent show, that was something else.

She tossed the robe on the bed with a show of bravado and pulled the blouse up over her head. Wesley, damn him, was looking at her breasts in their smooth satin cups as though he'd seen better. She reached around to undo the clasp - he made no move to help her, so she pulled it off and tossed it as well. Her nipples hardened. Suddenly cutting her hair short seemed like a really big mistake.

She glanced at him. He still said nothing, so Buffy unfastened her skirt and slid it down to her ankles, revealing the stockings, garter belt, and heels, and nothing else. Wesley raised an eyebrow and Buffy blushed. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. She kicked away the skirt and stepped out of the shoes, then popped the snaps and slid the stockings down and carefully off. Oddly, actual naked felt a little less naked. She picked up the robe and pulled it on, tying it tight around her waist.

For lack of any better plan, Buffy started walking past him, towards the bathroom, but Wes stopped her with an arm barring the way.

"What's that?"

He was gesturing at the still half-open drawer, at... oh.

"Spike's coat."

"Was he wearing it?"

Buffy fought down a hysterical laugh. If she said yes, was Wes gonna put it on?

"No. He just ... left it here. Downstairs."

"And you kept it."

Buffy nodded, even though it hadn't really sounded like a question. And anyway it was obvious she had. Even in Sunnydale, leather dusters don't leap out of the garbage (Xander's idea of an appropriate resting-place) and fold themselves in dresser drawers. Well, at least not when Willow wasn't around.

Wes had that "solved the crossword puzzle" look again. Or really more like "translated the incredibly complicated dead language," but who was counting? Buffy didn't bother asking what he'd figured out this time. It was pretty much a sure thing that he wouldn't tell her. But why take the chance?

She started walking again, and this time he let her go. She stepped into the bathroom and started the shower running as hot as it would go, and then just stood and watched the water fall.

The steam-filled tiny room was making her dizzy, and the mirror was all fogged up, so she sensed him behind her before she saw him. Just like last time.

She turned, expecting him, to, what? Get possessed by the spirit of Spikes Past? Instead, he stood there, just as Wesley as ever, with an expression that clearly said, "now what?"

After a moment, he followed it up with actual words. "I believe you were going to tell me a story?" he prompted.

"He was..." Buffy stalled. Wow this was awkward.

"Tell me."

Boy, if Wes had had that commanding voice the first time he'd come to Sunnydale, things would have gone a lot different. Fleetingly Buffy had a vision of this new Wes fucking her on the library table back in the day. Somehow she didn't think all the Scoobies watching would stop him either. And how sick was it that this was getting her wet?

"He was talking. About us. About... me feeling something for him." Buffy was talking in little fits and spurts, and taking deep gasping breaths between them, as if she'd been running.

"I said yes. Yes but. It didn't matter. It wasn't enough, because I could never trust him."

Wesley flinched.

Buffy jumped. "I - I didn't mean. I didn't think. I'm sorry. I -"

"Buffy?"

She nodded.

"Shut up."

Buffy took a deep breath. "Not Buffy. Slayer. He calls... he called me Slayer. And love. And pet. He hardly ever called me by my name."

Wes nodded, as if he was committing it to memory. Probably he was. It wasn't much of a feat for a guy who spoke Kwarhexzeack, or Portuguese for that matter.

"Slayer." Wes looked as if he were tasting the word. "Go on."

Buffy shrugged. "That's it really. I mean, for the talking."

"Slayer." That time it was a warning.

"He-" Buffy swallowed. "He pushed me down."

Wes did. Hard. Buffy wasn't expecting that - something symbolic, maybe, but not a dead serious thrust. She caught her shin on the tub and went down - on her face, though. That was different. She rolled over. Wes was standing above her, looking ready to hit, her, kick her, whatever she said. It was a weird kind of power.

"I was - I was hurt already. There was a demon..." she realized she was making excuses, and made herself stop. "He was... on me. On top of me."

Wes got down, heavily, to his knees, and then lowered his weight on top of her. It was hard to breathe.

"Like this?"

"Yes." Buffy whispered it.

"He was... grabbing at me, pulling the robe apart to reach me."

"Like this?" Wesley's slender fingers slid over her skin.

"Harder."

"Like this?"

"Harder."

That was it, the bruising pain. Buffy whimpered.

"No." Hands, punishing, everywhere. Not the teasing pinches and violent need she was used to, just -- violence. Invasion.

Wes didn't stop. "Tell me."

"I - I was saying no, stop, and he was telling me I used to feel it, when he was inside me, he'd make me feel it. His - his knees were forcing my legs apart." Buffy remembered the bruises on her thighs, after, how she'd felt them with every step through that long, awful day.

Wesley's thighs slipped between hers and opened. She resisted just long enough to feel the pain, shifted her hips slightly to get the angle right - there. Right there.

Wesley looked down into her eyes. "And then what?"

Buffy summoned a watery smile.

"And then I kicked him back into the wall."

Wesley's erection was grinding into her clit, hard enough to hurt.

"Are you going to demonstrate?"

"N-no." Buffy looked surprised.

"Why not?"

"Because I'd hurt you! Hi, not a vampire, in case you forgot."

Wesley smiled. "I haven't forgotten anything."

His hand slipped down between them, and Buffy heard a zipper. And then, just like that, he rammed himself into her. Wet as she was, it still hurt. Buffy whimpered again.

Wes leaned down to speak softly in her ear. "You can't trust me either."

"Oh god." A wave of - something - went through Buffy and she tightened around him.

Wesley looked... displeased. And stern. He pulled back and looked down at her.

"Your line is "no", he informed her.

"No," she repeated, feeling stupid and self-conscious.

Wesley thrust his cock deep inside her, hard enough to bruise.

"Wes..."

He hit her. Wesley hit her, an open-handed slap across the face. Buffy stared up at him, face white except where the red print of his hand still glowed.

"Stop..." this time she didn't feel self-conscious at all. Her hands scrabbled at his chest, trying to push him away, at least long enough to catch her breath and figure out what she was feeling, exactly, here.

Wesley's hand closed around her throat, just about the level of his own scar. Buffy stopped struggling abruptly.

He started fucking her, hard and fast. Buffy's legs lay limp and parted. "No... no, please, wait..."

There was no way she could pretend, like she had with Spike, that maybe he just didn't hear her. For one thing, he wasn't talking, wasn't begging her to admit anything. That and with every word his smile grew a bit broader and more satisfied.

Tears welled up in Buffy's eyes, although she couldn't say for what. She could stop this. She could stop this any time she chose.

_I was stronger than Spike too._

She pushed the words away, focused on the tiny tearing feeling as he entered her, pulled out, and slammed in again over and over. The soreness in her breasts where his crushing fingers had bruised. The heat of the tears as they spilled down her cheeks.

She murmured "no, no" like a mantra whose meaning she'd forgotten. Wesley's face above her was contorted with pleasure. With a strangled, wordless cry, he came.

And pulled out. Buffy made a small sound of god knows what. Relief? Frustration? Disappointment?

Wesley gently brushed the tears from her skin. He studied the wet tips of his fingers intently, then tasted them and nodded, once. He stood, fastened his pants and glanced down at her - face flushed and tearstained, robe, still uselessly tied, rucked up and pushed askew to expose mauled breasts and slack thighs sticky with his come.

"Clean yourself up, Slayer," he said coldly. "You're disgusting."

The door snicked quietly shut behind him.

Buffy sniffled. Her throat was half-closed with snot. The spray from the shower hitting her skin was cooling fast. There probably wasn't much hot water left.

In a minute, she knew, she would haul herself to her feet, blow her nose, and stand under the cold stream until she got goosebumps. And then put on the oldest, softest flannel shirt she could find. Maybe one Riley'd left behind -- something so huge you'd need a map to find her body underneath. And then she'd go downstairs and do the dishes, like a good practically parent, so that Dawn wouldn't worry when she came home.

In a minute. For now, Buffy closed her eyes and felt the cold tile underneath her. Her fingers were slick in the juicy mess between her legs. They worked over her clit, quickly, frantically.

Just like last time.

********

"Spike?" The basement appeared to be empty. Buffy's voice felt high and quavery, like it was going to wobble away to nothing. She swore to herself, as she always did, that next time she'd bring a super industrial strength flashlight. But they were just so hard to fit in a purse.

"Spike?"

It was at least 10 degrees colder down here than it was upstairs. You'd think, being so close to hell, it'd be hot enough to roast marshmallows. But heat rises, she guessed. Or maybe it was just the effect of industrial materials, unmasked by paint and carpet and corkboard draped with felt in school spirit colors. Any which way, she was glad for the coat, although it so didn't go with brown suede pants and the long, peasanty cream top with a handkerchief hem.

It wasn't the first time she'd put it on. Home, alone, the door firmly closed and locked, so Dawn didn't come in to ask awkward questions (_why didn't I lock the door?_). Late at night, after patrols that were all slay and no banter, after cool fingers caught at her from behind and there was a perceptible moment of hesitation before the shiver of revulsion, before the scream. She had to relearn fear.

The coat helped. She could imagine she was Nicki, the girl with a bit of her style about her, the girl who liked to dance. She could imagine Spike's game face (ugly, she reminded herself) poised above her, and the snap of her throat. Sometimes it felt like she could almost remember.

That and she missed him, which was nothing she could explain to Dawn or Xander, or even to herself. She wasn't stupid, and she wasn't a victim. She knew what he'd done.

But he'd been... something hard, that she could push against and feel what wasn't her, where she ended. Without that, she felt like pieces of herself were drifting in all directions, pulling away and gone like wisps of cloud, changing the shape of what was left. The coat helped keep it, keep her, together.

It stunk of smoke and beer, and Spike and blood. Sometimes she slept in it till morning.

"Spi-" there was a noise behind her, and she whirled.

He was there, just like he was always, suddenly, there.

Buffy smiled. "Hey."

Spike looked her up and down. "Nice coat. It suits you."

Buffy glanced down. "Except for the part where it drags on the ground and I can't see my hands," she pointed out.

"It's armor for a Slayer. It's right you should have it now." He looked almost relieved.

Buffy shook her head. "I brought it for you. It's yours."

Spike took a step back. "No, I can't. I killed for - I can't."

Buffy took it off, and held it out to him - slowly, like she was luring a deer to lick sugar from her hand. Or salt, she guessed. She heard they were into that. Not like she was really up on deer-luring techniques.

He just stood there, not making any move to take it.

"C'mon! It's cold down here." 'Cause vampires were so known for caring about that. "And - it's your coat. I can barely remember ever seeing you without it." Except for seeing him naked, which was pretty much burned into her brain.

"It just wouldn't be Spike without a duster. And a cigarette." Which come to think of it she hadn't seen him with either, lately.

Spike raised his head to meet her eyes. His own were burning blue. "That's the point, innit? Kill him. Deserves it. Bastard. Be... someone new. Someone you could..." he turned away.

"Right then. Give me the bloody coat." Buffy had the weirdest feeling he meant the adjective literally, but she proffered it again and he took it, blindly, shrugging into it with a bit of his old grace. His shoulders slumped, as if she'd loaded the pockets with stones.

Buffy wanted to stamp her feet. Why did he have to make everything so hard? This was supposed to be something nice she was doing for him, something he loved that she'd saved. Where did it take a wrong turn at The Scarlet Letter?

"Need help? Girl's in trouble, must save her. Burning brand, burning bush, torches and pitchforks."

Well the beginning of that almost sounded like it made sense. Buffy decided to go with it.

"Nope, nothing big and bad, unless you've gotten another memo from the forces of foreshadowing." She reached into the paper shopping bad that hung, forgotten, from her hand. "I brought you nail polish, like I promised. Come into the light."

Spike gave her a long look and then, wonder of wonders, did as he was told. Buffy sat down, Spike sat down, and she took his hand in hers, splayed it flat against the bag. 'Cause nail polish on suede is of the bad, right, nothing to do with not wanting his hand on her leg where the last, yellowing marks of Wesley still lingered. Buffy went to work with emory board and orange stick. She tried to be gentle, and thought she was succeeding. At least, if she jabbed him, he didn't make a sound.

"What color did you get?"

Well that was random.

"Black. Always a classic, right?"

"It should be red."

Huh? "So not picturing you with the glamour girl look."

Spike's face was unreadable, but eventually Buffy got the clue. Right. So it matches the blood on his hands. Always important to accessorize.

Well, when in doubt, new subject. As usual, all the stuff she should say and all the stuff she wanted to met in her throat and blocked all sound from coming out. Buffy wasn't even sure which was which any more. She swallowed. "I, um, I brought you an air mattress..."

********

Buffy walked through the door like she could have walked through a wall just as easily, and with the same determined expression.

"Where were you?"

Wesley glanced around where he sat, reading, in a pool of yellow light in the corner of his motel room.

"Here, clearly."

Buffy made an exasperated noise. "Yeah, I can see you. It's Thursday, why were you here reading a book and not back at school, picking me up so we can have disturbing sex without me walking a mile first?"

Wesley turned a page. "Perhaps I don't want you."

Buffy twitched the book from his hands and threw it across the room. "Then perhaps you could learn to use notepaper or other modern messaging devices." She looked at Wes; a reluctant smile was tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You know you want me." Buffy said flatly. She hoped that made it sound a little less like something that should be followed by a stripping secretary and synthesizer music.

Wesley's grin became a chortle. "Isn't there anything you're insecure about, you wretched girl?"

"Lots of things. But if you really didn't want me, you wouldn't be here, waiting. You'd either be gone, send me a nasty message or... send me a nasty message. Like be with somebody else when I got here."

Wesley's eyes widened and Buffy knew she'd scored a hit. She just couldn't decide if it was a good sign that she'd called it, or a bad sign that Wes looked like he was filing the idea away for future reference.

"She was feeling under the weather and had to go home."

"Oh, was it a she?" Buffy thought for someone who wasn't naturally British, she was really getting the supercilious eyebrow thing down.

Without waiting for an answer, she climbed into his lap and dangled her legs over the arm of the chair. "These boots are not made for walking the streets. I should so make you pay for that."

A sucked-in breath from behind her and subtle movement from beneath indicated that he didn't find the idea entirely unpleasant.

"Perhaps I thought, after last time, that you wouldn't want to be here."

Buffy looked up at Wes from under her lashes. His face was impassive - she had no idea if he was actually serious this time, or just yanking her chain again. Assuming he hadn't been serious before. Poker face didn't begin to describe it.

"Then you had a very short memory," Buffy said, finally. "You owe me an answer, remember?"

"Damn. I hoped you'd forgotten." Wesley threw back the last of his whiskey and set the glass down.

"I haven't forgotten anything." She couldn't resist throwing his words back at him.

"What was the question again?" He eyed her hopefully.

Buffy poked him in the stomach. "Why won't you call Angel?"

He looked down and away, and she didn't even try to catch and hold his eyes.

There was a long silence.

"Because I'm - it's not what he needs." Wesley finally answered.

"But you could explain, apologize, something. You did it for him. He needs to know that."

"No," said Wes abruptly. "He doesn't. It doesn't matter why, Buffy. I did it, it's done. It's over. Let it go."

"You first."

"Are we on the playground now? Surely this is a new level of immaturity, even for..."

Buffy cut across his scathing words, stifling the impulse to chant the sticks and stones rhyme. Maybe they didn't have that, where he grew up.

"You first. Let it go and I promise I'll never mention it again."

"I can't." That was the first time she'd ever heard that tone of defeat from Wesley. Not even when he talked about getting fired, or about getting his throat cut. Buffy laced her fingers through his.

He jerked his hand away.

"Wes, I think Angel needs all the people who believe in him that he can get." Wesley's eyes darkened, but he didn't answer. Buffy pressed on. "But even if he doesn't" -- or even if you don't believe in him -- "you need it."

"It doesn't matter what I need. I've forfeited that right quite some time ago."

"It does to me."

Wes looked up, startled, at that. "Why?"

"Because." Everything I ever needed to know in life I learned in kindergarden, thought Buffy. Like how not to answer questions.

Wesley leaned in to brush a kiss over her lips. "I can't fault your logic, I suppose."

Buffy settled happily back against him. "I'm glad that's settled. Because there's something else you owe me. Two things, actually."

"Oh, and what would those be? I don't recall making any further promises."

"A foot rub."

"That can probably be arranged," Wesley allowed.

Buffy continued. "And a story."


End file.
